Colliding Contrasts
by EstelRaca
Summary: Bahorel meets Prouvaire in a bar fight. He starts falling in love with him then; he's not sure when he stops. Jehan/Bahorel, written based on a prompt for a small Bahorel and a tall Prouvaire.


They meet in a tavern brawl.

Bahorel's at the center of the conflict. It's where he usually is—where he likes to be.

Jean also ends up at the center of that particular fight, though it's painfully obvious from the first that the man isn't used to physical confrontations. He tries, but his punches are tentative, his dodging instinctual rather than calculated. It wouldn't be so bad except that Jean is tall—a good head taller than anyone else in the room, where Bahorel is a good head shorter.

It makes Jean a target, especially once the others realize that he's not very skilled at fighting. Landing blows on Jean gives the illusion of bravery and success due to his size and reach without actually incurring much risk of injury.

That's all right, though. Setting himself up in front of the taller man, Bahorel grins as he takes on the challenge of protecting both himself and his new friend. "Keep you hands up! Protect your face!"

Jean stutters out something that's likely an affirmative, raising his fists in a game attempt at self-defense that makes Bahorel want to both grin and grimace.

"Hold your fist like this—no, thumb like this!" Ducking to the side, Bahorel sinks his fist into his opponent's midsection, earning a grunt and causing the man to retreat from the fray, doubled over. "Hit with your fist like that and you'll feel it for a week, assuming you don't break something."

Jehan tries. He follows Bahorel's instructions as best he can, but it's still clear within a minute that retreat will, in his case, be the better part of valor.

By that time the fight's escalated from a simple political debate with fists to a full-out tavern brawl that will only be stopped when most of the participants are too drunk or injured to continue. Laughing, enjoying himself immensely, Bahorel shoves the taller man toward the door, guarding his retreat with eager hands and, in one case, a kick to the groin that his opponent won't likely forget.

Bahorel usually tries not to fight dirty, but some insults—like _shorty_—just make him lose all sense of sympathy.

Drawing a deep breath of the cool night air, Bahorel stretches his arms above his head and laughs again. Shaking out his arms and fists as he lowers his hands, he grabs the taller man's arm and drags him off down the street, away from the commotion.

Jean follows without protest until they're several blocks away. Then the taller man slows to a stop, rubbing at the fingers of his right hand with his left. "Thank you. For back there. I think I would've been in a fair bit of trouble without you."

"I think you're right." Bahorel grins up at the other man, scratching behind his ear as he does. "You're not much use in a scrap."

"I usually try to avoid them." Jehan shrugs. "I will not back down from a position just because I'm being threatened, though. If people can't talk me out of my beliefs, they're certainly not going to be able to beat them out of me."

"Some people are just looking for a reason to hit others." Holding out his hand, Bahorel continues to smile at the other man. "I'm Bahorel. It's nice to meet you. No need to thank me, either. I've got a soft spot for people who don't know how to back down, even when they should."

"Jean Prouvaire." Jean takes his hand, a blush that Bahorel can see even in the moonlight coloring his cheeks. "You handled yourself very well back there."

Grinning broadly, Bahorel nods. "I've seen a fight or two. I can teach you how to do a little better, if you'd like."

"I'm fairly certain I couldn't do worse unless I actively tried." Jean gently touches by his left eye, where a bruise is already starting to form. "Any tips you could give me would be appreciated… though I hopefully won't have to use them in the near future."

"Depends on what you do with that sharp tongue of yours, and where you decide to go with it." Bahorel's grin doesn't fade. "Now, how about we meet up tomorrow, grab a bite to eat and begin your lessons?"

Jean nods. "All right. Sure."

They decide on the time and place, and Bahorel leaves Jean after the tall man assures him that he'll be fine getting home. The night's still young.

There's undoubtedly plenty more trouble to find.

XXX

Jehan is a terrible student of the art of fighting.

It's not that he doesn't try. He tries very hard, listening to all of Bahorel's suggestions with an open mind, trying to integrate them into his fighting style… if what he does could be called a fighting style.

He's built entirely differently than Bahorel is. Bahorel is small, almost always the shortest man in the room, frequently the smallest _person_ in the room unless children are present. But he's all wiry muscle, and he knows his body well.

Jean is tall, long, lanky limbs that never quite seem to know where they're going until they get there. He has a grace to his movement, but it's a slow, dreamy grace, nothing like the quick, certain movements Bahorel is used to.

Jean will at least be able to form a proper fist next time he gets in a fight, though, and Bahorel eventually decides that this is at least enough of a step in the right direction to let the matter go.

When they're done with the lesson they eat, and over dinner they discuss their families, their classes, their goals, and, hesitantly, their politics. Since it had been at the heart of the fight the previous night, Bahorel has an idea of where Jean's sentiments lie, but he wants to hear the man talk about them when not under the influence of alcohol.

Jehan talks well. His words are simple but elegant, his turns of phrase gorgeous, his metaphors unique and colorful, and Bahorel finds himself grinning once more as he studies the other man. "I can see why you want to be a poet."

Blushing again, something he seems to do frequently, Jean looks down. "I'm glad that you approve. Words are something that I find to be very precious and very powerful."

"True." Bahorel takes a bite of his steak. "A good fist to the head will stop a man, but a good turn of phrase can change him."

Jean continues to blush, though he smiles brightly. "A beautiful way of putting the difference. And I may not be very good with my fists, but perhaps with my words I can make a difference."

"I'm sure you will." Draining his glass, Bahorel gives the poet a mock-frown. "So long as you keep from getting that pretty face of yours rearranged in a brawl, of course."

"I'll be sure to be extra careful from now on." Jean finishes his own meal in two quick bites. "Though… it may not be wise to leave me to my own devices just yet. Were you planning on going out tonight?"

"Always." Bahorel grins again. "Would you like to join me?"

"Depends." Jean narrows his eyes in suspicion that Bahorel suspects is largely feigned. "Are you going to be at the center of a fight again?"

"Depends." Drawling out the word, Bahorel gestures for another drink. "Is there going to be a fight, and is it actually going to be interesting?"

XXX

Jean follows him for the next two weeks.

Sometimes the poet's quiet. Often he has a notebook in front of him, and he scribbles in it from time to time, though Bahorel never gets a good look at what any of the words are.

Sometimes he's decidedly unquiet. He's smart, and he knows when to be cautious, but when caution isn't needed the poet can have a sharp tongue and a dry wit.

Bahorel gets in three more fights. It's a common occurrence for him, and he enjoys them, for the most part. He wins the first two easily; the third gives him a bit more trouble, and he finds himself sporting a lovely bloody nose, a ringing head, and a gash in his arm from a broken bottle before the battle's won.

Jean walks him home, the poet's hand on his shoulder keeping him from stumbling into any walls as he tries to make the world stop spinning.

Jean has to open the door to his apartment, because Bahorel can't quite manage to make the key fit in the lock. Stumbling over to his bed, Bahorel collapses with a deep sigh, burying his head in his pillow. Perhaps if he stops looking at the world it will stop deciding to spin quite so rapidly.

"You're hurt." Jean's hands are tentative as they pick at the fabric of Bahorel's sleeve, pulling the blood-drenched edges of the tear apart to peer at the wound underneath. "Do you have bandages?"

Bahorel turns his head so that he can stare at the poet. "You've been watching my life for the last two weeks. Do you think I have bandages?"

Jean smiles, his long fingers still, resting lightly on Bahorel's skin through the hole in his shirt. "You could be someone who likes to bleed. Or to pretend that nothing's wrong until something very bad happens."

"Mm, I've another friend who would take it very poorly if I had anything worse than a paper cut that I didn't tend to immediately and properly." Nodding toward a chest at the end of the bed, Bahorel forces himself back into a sitting position. "Bandages are in the chest at the foot of the bed; there's water in the basin that should still be relatively clean, and rags to clean up the blood at the bottom of the wardrobe. Unless you don't like the sight of blood. I'm quite capable of cleaning myself up."

"At the moment you seem more capable of sleeping than anything else." Jean gathers the materials, a soft smile on his face as he settles down next to Bahorel on the bed. "If you don't mind, I'd like to help you get bandaged up."

"I'd be a fool if I minded." Working his way slowly out of his shirt, Bahorel studies the gash on his arm and sighs. It'll give him another nice scar, but it should heal well enough without stitches. Which is good, because Joly would berate him for being injured again and Combeferre would give him that _look_.

It wasn't fair when Combeferre used that look on people. There just wasn't enough provocation to justify punching the man for it, there was nothing you could say in retaliation because telling him not to look at you like that just meant he won, and it was really quite infuriating.

Jehan bends down to peer at the wound carefully as he cleans it, his fingers wonderfully gentle. It still hurts, having the wound cleaned, but it's much less painful than if Bahorel had done it for himself. Jean only falters when it comes to tying the bandage. His first attempt is so loose that Bahorel can feel it trying to slide down before he even moves.

"Tighter, Jehan. It won't work otherwise."

Jehan nods, his lips pressed tight together, and his fingers trail over Bahorel's arm again as he tightens the bandage.

"Tighter." Bahorel lays his hand overtop one of Jehan's, tugging along with the poet until the bandaging feels like it has the proper tension. "There we go."

"Sorry." Another faint blush touches Jehan's cheeks as he secures the bandage. "I'm not used to doing this, and I didn't want to hurt you."

"I know." Bahorel's hand reaches out—reaches _up_—and trails across the blush tingeing the poet's cheekbones. "You're not much good at hurting anything."

"I prefer writing about suffering to inflicting it." The blush deepens, but Jehan leans into the touch. "There's poetry in blood and battle, in pain and pride, but it's easier to manage in words. It's easier to make it _matter_ in words—to strip the situation to the heart of the matter, to paint the emotions more cleanly, to make the ending more poignant."

"Is that why you've been spending so much time with me?" Bahorel pulls his hand away, one eyebrow quirking as he looks up to meet Jean's gaze. "So you can write about me?"

"No." Jean's blush deepens. "I've been following you because I like you. I like the way you talk. I like the people you associate with. And I like watching you fight. You're small, but you're fast and you're efficient. You don't start the fights, but you never back down. You're poetry in motion, Bahorel, vibrant and alive and overflowing with energy and potential, and I write about you because you're worth writing about. Even when what I'm writing about is you bleeding."

Jean's fingers trail over the bandage again, and Bahorel draws a slow, deep breath. "Well, I don't think I can return the compliments with quite the same flare, but I will admit that I've been enjoying your company, too. If you were interested… I have some other friends that I'd like to introduce you to."

A bright grin breaks across Jean's face. "I'd love to meet any friends of yours, Bahorel. Just name the time and place."

"The time will be after I've slept. The place… I'll show you where the café is." Bahorel yawns, rubbing between his eyes, pleased that the ringing in his head seems to have faded. "Thanks for all of this."

"Any time, Bahorel." Jean's fingers trail once more across the bandage before he stands. "Any time."

XXX

Jean gets along well with the rest of the Amis, and before a month has passed he's well and truly part of the group, any lingering fears that he might be a spy banished from Bahorel's mind by the poet's utter dedication to their cause. He's a valuable asset for them to have, his skill with words quite useful, his connections quite different from those of the others.

His growing engagement with the Amis and his clear fondness for several of them doesn't impede him from following Bahorel around on a regular basis, though, and Bahorel finds that he likes it.

He likes being able to look up from a fight, verbal or physical, and easily pick Jehan out of the crowd, a worried, rapt expression on the poet's face as he watches Bahorel.

He likes being able to drink and chat with the poet about anything and everything, their conversation hardly faltering no matter how much alcohol they've imbibed.

He likes it when Jehan follows him home, being able to watch the poet's somehow ungainly grace.

He likes it when Jehan stays for a while, the poet curling up on the bed or in Bahorel's desk chair and scribbling by candlelight, sometimes until Bahorel falls asleep. There's a fire to Jehan's eyes when he's writing, a bright, glittering light that has nothing to do with the candle flame, and Bahorel could sit and watch him for ages, contemplating the emotions that flare and fade on Jean's face. The order of the emotions doesn't always make sense—agony into ecstasy, ecstasy into sorrow, sorrow into joy—but the sheer depth of feeling is enough to keep Bahorel enraptured.

He reads what Jean offers to him, but he never asks to see the poems that Jehan writes on those nights. He's honored enough to get to see the man work, to have the quiet times with Jean when the poet's in his element.

And Bahorel does love Jean in his element. Just as surely as Jehan follows him, as the months stretch on Bahorel starts following Jehan. The poet's gentle, he's not a fighter, but he's not afraid to face the darker things in life… especially if he thinks he can find something beautiful there.

Bahorel has never spent so many evenings in graveyards—some in the rain, some not.

He's fairly certain Joly would die of terror if Bahorel told him that he and Jean went to the catacombs to see the bodies.

Even the simple things that the poet decides to do on the spur of the moment, walking through an overgrown garden in the rain in the depths of night, take on a surreal and wonderful edge when Jehan's walking beside him, words spilling from his mouth like moonlight.

It's eight months after that first fight when things change between them. They've already been out, already been evicted from a bar for starting a fight—well, Bahorel had been, but Jean followed him out—and Jean's spent the last hour writing while Bahorel stretches lazily on his bed, watching the poet.

Raising his head from his writing, Jean turns to peer at Bahorel. The candlelight glints off his hair, paints shadows and ruddy fire across his cheek and in the depths of his eyes, and Bahorel finds his breath catching in his throat as he watches the poet.

Standing slowly to his full height, not hunching as he normally does, Jean covers the handful of steps to the bed and settles down next to Bahorel, barely a hand's span separating Bahorel's thigh from the poet's. Holding out the sheet of paper that he's been scribbling on all day, Jean turns his eyes resolutely toward the candle flame on the desk.

Bahorel forces his eyes down to the words on the page. At first he only picks up highlights, words out of order—phoenix, wild cat, beneficent Ares, unmaimed Tyr—but then his eyes put them in the proper order, start at the top of the page and work their way down—to the description of fierce eyes, calloused hands, strong muscles, well endowed _strength_, he's sure the enjambment there is supposed to make it well endowed with _strength_—and he has to swallow hard.

"This is about me." Bahorel lowers the page, studying Jehan's profile. "It's gorgeous, Jean. I don't—"

"I have had a fair amount to drink tonight, for the record. And I was thinking hard about the Greek gods, trying to find the right one." Jean turns to face him, right hand rising to trail slowly over Bahorel's cheek and down to his chin. "So perhaps you can forgive me in the morning, if you take a strong dislike to this."

He could move away. Jean is slower than him.

Instead he watches, breath shallow, as Jean leans down, slowly and carefully, his body supported by his left hand, his right hand slipping around to bury itself in Bahorel's hair, and presses his lips to Bahorel's.

The kiss tastes like wine. It tastes like smoke and wine and fire and words, all the words that they can't say, all the words that shouldn't be, and Bahorel wraps both his hands in Jean's gorgeous hair and pulls the poet down on top of him.

Jean flails, his balance stolen too easily, his long legs still dangling off the bed, and Bahorel releases him with a nip at the poet's lower lip and a full-throated laugh.

Blushing scarlet, redder than the fire's flicker, Jean studies Bahorel uncertainly. "Does that mean… are you…"

"You're strange. You're exciting." Sitting up himself, Bahorel trails a hand down Jean's neck, toying with the buttons of Jean's shirt. "If this is what you want, I'm quite happy to oblige you."

"I… well." A smile grows slowly on Jean's face. "I was certain you'd reject me. I was worried that you'd never want to see me again if I made my attraction known."

Bahorel shakes his head, a fond smile on his lips. "I've raided graveyards with you."

"It wasn't a raid!" Jean protests. "We were leaving bodies, not taking them. The cats deserved a funeral."

"At night, under the stars, when there are many people who aren't accorded a funeral." Bahorel leans up, pressing a kiss to Jean's right cheek. "And it wasn't the only time I've ended up in a graveyard at night with you."

Smiling, still blushing, Jean bites at his lower lip. "You didn't have to come. Any of the times."

"I didn't. But I liked it. I've liked all of it." Bahorel pulls Jean forward into another full kiss, his tongue sliding over Jean's lips, pressing between them, skating over the poet's teeth. "The point being, I've done many strange and potentially illegal things with you… not even including our work with the Amis, because that's just illegal, not strange."

Jean quirks an eyebrow. "Clearly you don't always listen to conversations with the Amis as closely as you should."

Bahorel laughs again, his hands cupping Jean's face before sliding down Jean's neck and tracing the sharp points of his collarbones through his shirt. "Perhaps. I tend to notice the interesting things, though."

Leaning forward, Jean kisses the center of Bahorel's forehead before working his way down Bahorel's face, gentle kiss by gentle infuriating kiss, until his lips meet Bahorel's for a scant second before he rips them away, continuing his slow trail down Bahorel's body, his teeth sinking into the skin of Bahorel's neck.

Moaning despite himself, Bahorel tries not to laugh at how the poet's bent over. "This might be easier if we lie down."

Jean pauses and straightens. "If we lie down, we might not stand up for a while."

"Yes." Bahorel licks his lips. "I was thinking that was the point."

"You're really all right with this." A breathless laugh works its way out of Jean's throat, his eyes bright with desire and relief. "You really… ah, I was so prepared for rejection I didn't really plan for acceptance."

Clapping Jean on the shoulder, Bahorel offers him another slow, lingering kiss. "You should have more faith in your charms."

"My charms are not what I doubt." Jean's smile takes on a rueful edge as he shrugs. "But it's hard to tell a man you love him when the church says you're damning both him and yourself in the process."

"I've never had much use for the church." Nuzzling against Jean's neck, Bahorel pulls the poet down onto the bed so he's lying next to him. "I don't like people telling me what I can and can't do, and that seems to be their objective most times."

Jean's fingers tease at the cuffs of Bahorel's shirt, feather-light against the sensitive skin of Bahorel's wrists. "And those who would say lying with another man makes you less of one?"

Bahorel nips lightly at Jehan's ear. "Let them say it to my face. We'll see who's less of a man. Though I will admit I don't intend to broadcast this relationship. Sometimes discretion is the better part of valor."

"I know. I understand." Jehan allows his head to rest against Bahorel's chest, his breath tickling the hairs there. It's an odd sensation, something Bahorel hasn't felt often—women tended to be near his size, their heads resting next to his. Not that he usually gives his mistresses much time to rest in bed… though perhaps that's been a miscalculation on his part.

"I've some experience with this." Jean starts slowly, methodically opening Bahorel's shirt, an inch at a time, his fingers so close to Bahorel's skin that he can feel the warmth but without touching him at all. "Do you?"

"Very little." Bahorel raises one shoulder in a shrug, his eyes fixed on Jean's. "At least, nothing beyond childish fumbling. Nothing with any penetration. But I tend to learn quickly."

"I can be a very patient teacher." Opening Bahorel's shirt, still denying any skin-to-skin contact, Jean smiles slyly. "If you're interested, of course."

"Jean." Bahorel's words are a low growl in his throat. "If you don't touch me soon…"

Jean's smile widens. "You'll do something untoward to me? Ah, Bahorel, that would be _terrible_."

"You." Lunging over, Bahorel pins the poet to the bed and kisses him soundly. "_You_."

"Me." Jean's voice is breathless, ecstasy in every syllable as he yields, his long, lanky body relaxed and warm under Bahorel's weight. "I love you, Bahorel."

"Yeah?" Bahorel opens Jehan's shirt, with less finesse but more speed than the poet had used with him. Trailing his tongue from the base of Jean's jaw down to his nipple, Bahorel smiles. "That's good. Because I'm quite certain I love you, too."

It's not the last words that are said that night. Silence isn't something Jean's good at.

But it's the last thing that makes sense to Bahorel, the rest of the night a blur of half-comprehensible phrases and intense pleasure that he's certain won't ever be replicated again.

That's all right, though.

Given Jehan's curiosity and penchant for experimentation, he's certain they'll have other nights that are just as wonderful.


End file.
